A Somewhat Starry Night
by mazarin
Summary: Set post-ASiP. They're just getting to know each other. A casual thing, no strings attached, is just fine with both of them. For now.
1. A Somewhat Starry Night

John didn't even move when the trap door opened and Sherlock appeared in the opening, then proceeded to haul himself through and up onto the roof. He knew Sherlock would find him up here eventually; a man like him wouldn't think twice about invading someone's personal brooding time.

"You never really can see the stars in London," John says to the dark coat that drops beside him on the shingles. "Just the suggestion that there might be stars. The occasional point of light here and there, enough to make you realize what you might be missing."

"Is hiding something you do fairly regularly?" Sherlock rumbles, settling more comfortably on his elbows, head tipped back to gaze upward, the orange haze of streetlights and cars and houses tinting the dark sky and the long, smooth column of his throat.

John ignores him. "We'd take night patrols out into the Kush, hardly anyone was around, and the night would be so completely pitch dark. The only light was from the moon and the stars." The sky would be brilliant, an entire swath of glorious, sparkling light, the Milky Way cutting across like a purple ribbon. He's glad he's home, but he does miss the stars.

Comfortable silence descends, both of them relaxed, and John's glad Sherlock isn't the kind of man to make useless conversation. They simply breathe for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. John's starting to feel the cold creep through his coat and thinks it might be time to go back inside when Sherlock speaks, voice low.

"Is that when you were shot? On a night patrol in the mountains?"

John turns his head to look at Sherlock's profile. He hasn't moved; he's still looking up, as if any answer that John might give would hold no surprise for him. "No. Firefight near Jalalabad, in the Kabul River valley," he says, turning his head back to contemplate the clouds beginning to slide across the sky.

John suddenly feels fingers on the inside of his wrist, tracing their way down the base of his thumb, feeling and exploring the calluses still present from months of carrying a weapon in the thin dry air. He doesn't move despite the heat pooling low in his belly, because he's already been warned off once tonight and he's not about to make a fool of himself twice.

"You killed a man for me tonight," Sherlock says, and curls his hand around John's.

"Yes, well, don't feel too special. It's not the first time."

"But you barely know me."

John shrugs. His heart is hammering double-time, palm itching to tighten against Sherlock's soft skin, thread their fingers together more securely. He finds it hard to pretend indifference when Sherlock lifts their joined hands to his mouth and kisses John's thumb.

John exhales, a rush of sound through his nose. "You sure?"

"Do you think I'd ever do anything I wasn't sure of?"

"No. And I highly doubt you'd ever do anything that anyone told you to, either," John says, feeling a shiver run through him. Christ, it's too cold for this. Before he can suggest moving inside, Sherlock is kneeling over his body and straddling his thighs, long dark coat covering both of them.

"You're right about that," Sherlock murmurs, bending low and tracing his nose along John's cheek. "But if you told me to fuck you, I wouldn't say no."

John slides his hands up Sherlock's thighs, tilting his head to capture Sherlock's mouth in a slow, lazy kiss. It's been an unbelievable night already, what's one more insanity to add to the mix?

"What if I told you that_ I_ wanted to fuck _you_?" John says, reaching around to grasp Sherlock's really very fine arse and giving it a squeeze.

"Whatever gets you off," Sherlock says, and leans back to work on his belt and trousers. He strips his lower half fairly efficiently, considering their precarious footing, canting a long leg back over John's lap to start on John's trousers, opening the flies enough to pull John's erection into the cool air.

John jumps at the touch of Sherlock's hands. "Christ, your hands are freezing! Get up here, let me kiss you again." John pulls Sherlock's body against his, tucking their hips together and feeling the silky heat of Sherlock's cock sliding against his, their body heat trapped beneath Sherlock's coat. He really wants to be buried to the hilt inside Sherlock's body, feeling Sherlock come apart above him and breaking down that cool façade he's wrapped himself in. But the roof is slick, Sherlock's kneeling directly on the shingles, and they're both going to freeze to death if they don't get inside soon. So John grasps his hips harder, and begins to rock up against Sherlock's body. He waits until Sherlock takes up the rhythm before he spits into his palm and slicks their cocks where they're pushing against each other.

Sherlock's breath is coming out in soft huffs, clouds of mist clinging around his head as he grinds down. There's more to this, John thinks, than a quick frot on a rooftop; more than life-affirming sex after a wild night. Sherlock's reaction to John's honest praise gave John a glimpse of the vulnerability that Sherlock tries very hard to hide, wrapping himself in sarcasm and cold hard brilliance like armor. John sees it, though, knows Sherlock is more than he lets on. John's pretty sure Sherlock is going to save his life, if not literally then at least through the sheer audacity of his existence. Now that John's had a taste of that life, that existence, he wants it more than anything. They'll never be able to tell each other that, though, so they'll have to settle for this.

His orgasm is creeping up on him, and watching Sherlock gasp and bite his lip after a particularly sharp twist of John's palm over their cocks makes his arousal spike. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're so fucking beautiful, you know that?"

"I've been informed," Sherlock gasps, rocking harder, his balls sliding against John's. "Yes, John, with your thumb over like – augh, yes, _fuck_, I, I …" and suddenly Sherlock is shuddering above him, semen spilling across John's stomach, increasing the slip of their bodies against each other as John works his hands faster. He's there, God, he's there, and when Sherlock drops down to crash his mouth against John's, kissing him wildly, nipping his lips and licking into John's open mouth, he arches and comes hard, wrapping his arms around Sherlock' waist and digging his heels in to make sure they don't slide down the roof.

They look at each other in the dim orange light, Sherlock's pale eyes searching John's face, probably looking for any trace of regret or shame, and finding nothing to give him pause, smiles brightly.

"Your room is ready," Sherlock says, rolling off of John and pulling his trousers up and pushing his shoes on, picking up his socks. "You'll bring your things tomorrow? We'll have to go in and give Lestrade a statement, but I'm sure we can come up with something convincing by then."

John laughs and shakes his head. Even insanity is normality, it seems. "Go on, I'll be down in a minute."

Sherlock looks at him sharply. "Hiding again?"

"No. Since I can't see the stars, I might as well watch the dawn," John gestures to the pink and orange starting to stain the eastern sky.

"Then I'll watch with you," Sherlock says, and he tucks up against John's shoulder, watching the sun break across the sky.


	2. The Heat of a Kiss

Part 2 – The Kiss

Three weeks later and John and Sherlock have settled into a sort-of routine – John finds he's doing most of the shopping (and the cooking, and the cleanup, and someone really should hoover, and he bets it'll be him.) Sherlock's pulled John in on another case, that of a rare-plant smuggler that required a few nights of covert surveillance and more running than he's done in six months. He's having the time of his life and is more than happy with how things have worked out so far, even if they haven't had a repeat of their rooftop performance, which really is fine. Wasn't John's first one night stand, and probably won't be his last.

So when John opens the door back in from the shops and finds Sherlock still stretched out on the sofa, a pale crescent of stomach showing where his t-shirt has ridden up, John's pretty unprepared for the flash of lust that strikes.

"You could at least take a shower," he says instead.

"No," Sherlock says petulantly. Oh, it's going to be one of those days. Excellent. John's already noticed that Sherlock gets bloody obnoxious when he's bored, which John finds more attractive than he'd readily admit. He gets bored, too, and finds Sherlock voices all the things John wishes he could say; but his innate sense of the polite, of adult behavior, prevents it.

"Then stop being a lazy bastard and help me with the washing up. You're dealing with whatever you got stuck to that plate." John pulls his jumper over his head and unbuttons his cuffs to fold the sleeves over his elbows, and as he does so, Sherlock executes a slow roll that leaves him on his stomach, chin propped on his folded arms and his bare feet hanging over the arm of the sofa, blue dressing gown twisted around his waist.

"Oh, too good to dirty your pretty hands, is it? I promise I'll get you a manicure, after," John snarks.

Sherlock's eyeroll can practically be felt across the room, so John walks over and stands next to his head, ready to harass him. As he does, Sherlock stretches, tips his hips up, and practically _presents_ his pajama-clad arse. Oh for God's sake. John rubs his fingers over the ridge of his eyebrows.

"So that's what you're on about. You could have just said."

"Didn't really think about it until today," Sherlock says, looking up at John with a half-smile, pleased he'd caught on so quickly, no doubt.

"When you got bored, you mean," John says as he steps to the side and runs a hand over Sherlock's arse, smoothing the fabric over and giving a small squeeze. Oh yes, absolutely perfect. May as well add it to the list of Things John Does in the flat, he thinks wryly.

Sherlock shivers. "Oh, don't be like that. I was busy until now."

John pushes the pants down over Sherlock's hips and pulls them from his feet with a flourish, leaving Sherlock bare from the waist down and giving John a much better view than he had the last time, a quick scrabble in the dark not conducive to languid mapping of someone's body. Sherlock turns over and waits as John unbuttons and unbuckles and sheds his clothes down to the socks, and manhandles the rest of Sherlock's clothes off too, while he's at it.

John presses forward to guide Sherlock onto his back so John can stretch out over his body and give him the long, slow kisses they missed last time around. _This_ may be the last time around, as capricious as Sherlock's moods are, but John will take access to that lovely, long body while he can. Especially when Sherlock grips John's arse and pulls him in so he can wrap his legs around John's waist.

"I don't suppose you have lube around here anywhere," John says while dropping kisses across Sherlock's clavicle.

In response, Sherlock stretches out a long arm digs around in his discarded dressing gown until he finds the pocket and pulls out both condom and lube.

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" John says, taking both.

Sherlock grins at him. "It was either going to be you or my own hand. I'd rather you. I find you an interesting read, John Watson."

John should be a bit more concerned, probably, that Sherlock's not only using him to scratch an itch, but trying to deduce him, work out his motives and his inclinations. But when John slides a lubed finger into Sherlock's body and strokes his prostate with a knowing touch that makes him arch and groan, John can't really bring himself to dwell on it. John's never been attracted to someone quite like him, and when Sherlock exhales his name, John feels that it's entirely possible he may never be attracted to anyone else ever again.

"Now's fine," Sherlock pants, rolling his hips against John's hand and threading his fingers through John's hair to hold his head while they kiss. John stops for a moment and rolls on the condom, adding more lube. Not one for foreplay, it seems, which is fine. John feels himself getting pretty desperate for the heat of Sherlock's body around him, so he shoves a throw pillow under Sherlock's hips and a hand under one of Sherlock's knees and slides slowly into that gorgeous arse as Sherlock huffs soft breaths into the quiet of the flat.

"All right?" John whispers, holding himself perfectly still, thighs trembling with the effort.

Sherlock nods frantically. "Move, _please_, I need you to –" Sherlock's pleas drive John forward, make him drop down to his elbows over Sherlock's body so he can kiss him as he starts a long, deep, slow slide that has Sherlock frantic in a matter of minutes, his heels digging into John's arse.

Tension coils in Sherlock's neck, making him throw his head back and arch under every thrust, crying out in sync with the movement of John's cock inside him; cries that get louder and more intense and make John wonder how soundproof the place truly is.

"Shhh!" John says, and kisses him through it as John lifts a bit, balances on one elbow and works his hand in to stroke Sherlock's erection. "Keep it down, the neighbors will call us in."

Sherlock breaks away to choke out a laugh. "Don't care. Let them. Good Christ, hope they do."

John laughs at that, and then watches in wonder as Sherlock's orgasm shatters him to pieces, leaving him shuddering and twitching with aftershocks. The look of bliss on Sherlock's face and tightening of his body sharpens John's arousal, drags him forward from lazy pleasure to hard need in an instant. Sherlock watches with heavy-lidded eyes as John succumbs, lets the pleasure wash over him and bring him off in three deep thrusts.

Sherlock pulls John down to rest against his chest, which John is grateful for as his arm really was starting to give out. They lay together for a moment in the quiet evening, Sherlock drawing lazy circles over John's back.

"Feel better now?" John asks, voice a bit muffled against Sherlock's chest. He wonders just how far Sherlock plans to take this – it's obvious he's been watching John, waiting for the best time to act, and used his boredom as an excuse to satisfy his lust.

"Better, yes. Thank you." He pauses for a moment. "Still bored, though." John snorts as Sherlock suddenly shifts, dropping John into the couch as he slides out from underneath and pulls on his pajama pants. He pads quickly to the kitchen and retrieves his mobile, scrolling through to see any new texts. The look of aggrieved disappointment on his face is so comical that John's barely concealed giggles turn into full out laughs.

Sherlock glares. "I'm taking a shower," he snaps, and spins on his heel to stalk off to the bathroom. But before he closes the door, he pokes his head out. "Do you…would you like to join me? I understand if, well…" And there's that vulnerability again, that tiny little crack in Sherlock's diffidence. John can't resist it, even if he wanted to.

"Of course."

Sherlock beams. "Then we can go harass Lestrade, make him give us the Clippin case. God knows he needs the help."

John can't help but smile in return. It's a good thing he doesn't have a job.

Sherlock's life is starting to sink its claws in, and John's never relished the burn more.


	3. Portrait of a Friendship

"Is he coming?" John whispers into the night.

Sherlock waves his hand, signaling that no, their quarry isn't in sight, and yes, John should stay put behind the skip and wait. Sherlock is across the alley, two stories up on a fire escape, crouched down with his dark coat wrapped around his knees and his face tucked behind his collar. If John didn't know he was there, he'd be completely invisible in the gloom.

John watches carefully. Suddenly Sherlock flicks his hand out, giving John about 30 seconds warning to pull taut the fishing line they'd carefully tied to a lamppost on one side of the pavement and wrapped around John's padded and gloved hands where he's hidden behind a skip on the other.

Anderson makes his way down the pavement around the back side of the house. They're on day four of a complicated multiple murder scene, and it's taken the entire forensics division at least that long to carefully excavate and catalogue all of the remains found in the back garden. Their work is finished now, the scene completely processed, and John's had about enough. Sherlock's been there all four days, John about half of that, and if the volume and quality of insults Anderson's thrown Sherlock's way when John was around are any indication, its been a long four days for Sherlock's nerves. It was when John made his way to the back carport along the alley behind the house earlier in the day he had his idea for a little revenge.

He pulls hard, levering his weight against the skip, and waits for the inevitable. He feels a sharp tug, hears a curse, and pokes his head out just far enough to see Anderson stagger and fall face-first into a massive puddle left in the grass by the morning's rain. John drops the line, ducks out from the back of the skip and darts around the side of the carport, trusting Sherlock to catch up with him at the front of the house. He does about two minutes later, eyes dancing with amusement. They wait for a moment, then, seeing Anderson making his muddy way their direction, take off.

"Told you it would work!" John crows.

"It's completely juvenile," Sherlock says, huffing a little as they run, glancing back to see if Sally noticed them on their rather hurried way out.

"Funny though, right?" God, the sight of the scowl on Anderson's face and his blue tyveks dripping with muddy water was going to make him laugh for a week.

Sherlock grins. "Yes, it really was."

They run, laughing, into the gathering night.

* * *

><p>"You know you don't have to defend me," Sherlock says, around a mouthful of noodles. "Anderson's an idiot with a brain the size of a walnut. Perhaps smaller."<p>

John looks up, surprised at this conversational detour. He swallows. "Wasn't. You thought it was funny." John points at Sherlock with his chopsticks for emphasis, and then goes back to picking the snowpeas out of his chicken. Hateful things. "Besides, if it just so happened that he was a complete tosser to you all week, that's just a bonus."

Sherlock looks at him carefully. "Well, I appreciate the benefits, as it were." He clears his throat. "Thank you."

"Eh. It's what mates do, right?"

Sherlock smiles at him, a warm, genuine smile that John's only seen once. It transforms his severe features, making him look years younger, relaxed and happy. Drop dead gorgeous. "Yes, I suppose they do," he says.

* * *

><p>John's just tossing his shirt across the room into the basket when he hears a tap on the door.<p>

"Yeah," he calls, pulling on his sleep shirt and kicking his shoes under the bed. The door opens a crack and Sherlock looks in. "What's on, then?"

Sherlock crosses the room and climbs up to sit cross-legged on the bed. He looks thoughtful for a minute before he says, "You said we were friends, earlier."

John's a bit puzzled, but goes with it. "'Course we are. Take it that's a new experience for you?" John says teasingly, but his smile fades when he sees the look on Sherlock's face. He immediately feels guilty, remembering a nasty older brother's rather pointed remarks.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I've had friends."

_Had being the operative word_, John thinks.

"Just, not in a while. I've been too busy, too focused. But I wanted to say that…well." Sherlock clears his throat and ducks his chin, a flush rising up his neck.

John smiles at him, understanding what he's too uncomfortable to say. That words are hard for him, that he doesn't share them easily, that giving John even the power of claiming friendship is something he doesn't do lightly. So John sits down next to him and cuffs him on the back of the head. "I'm glad I'm here too, you mad bastard."

Sherlock feigns indignation. "That was completely uncalled for."

"Fair and equitable retribution for you being a sappy idiot. Clear off so I can sleep, would you?"

But Sherlock's not moving. In fact, he's leaning into John's shoulder more and more heavily with each second, until his nose is tucked into John's neck.

"What are you up to?" John says, feeling Sherlock's breath tickle his skin.

"Being friendly," he mumbles, then presses a light kiss into John's throat.

"Ah," John says, his chest tightening. "Friends with benefits?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers, and sucks a little on John's neck, his tongue swirling against John's skin. "You said we were friends; we have sex sometimes. Like now."

"Sherlock, it's been almost a month. You can't just use me for sex whenever you feel like it. Work off your post-case drop somewhere else."

Sherlock pulls back, a pretty pout on his face.

"No matter how gorgeous you look." John sighs.

Sherlock smiles, and bites his lip.

"Or how fuckable. Jesus, Sherlock. You're going to be the death of me."

"I knew you'd see it my way."

"Is there any other way?" John says, as he scoots back on the bed and Sherlock kneels above him.

"Not really," Sherlock agrees, and kisses him, working to strip John's pajamas from his body before he slides down the bed between John's legs.

Sherlock's mouth around his cock is warm, and soft, and spine-meltingly erotic. In the month since they last had sex, John's fantasized about it any number of times. He's not sure why he hasn't just asked, why he doesn't slide his fingers along Sherlock's spine and whisper filthy things in his ear until he agrees to come to John's bed. But something always seemed to stop him, to make him reconsider.

That hesitation is forgotten as John writhes and tries not to buck up into Sherlock's mouth, focusing instead on wrapping his fingers in Sherlock's hair. He's doing well holding off his orgasm until Sherlock slips two fingers into his arse.

"Fuck! A warning next time would be good," he manages, and when Sherlock runs knowing fingertips over his prostate, he loses coherence altogether and drops back on the pillows. His control shatters under Sherlock's hands and mouth and he does thrust up then, feeling Sherlock's tongue and soft palate working him in deep pulls until he comes hard with one heel digging into Sherlock's back.

John cracks open his eyes and looks down his body to see Sherlock staring directly at him, mouth still on John's cock and a heated look in his eyes that leaves John breathless. "Come here," John says, and holds out his hand.

Sherlock releases him with an obscene lick and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He looks greedy, wanting, and John knows what he'll ask for, even as John kisses the taste of himself from Sherlock's tongue.

"There are condoms in the drawer," John says, in between kisses.

John's feels his face flush as he watches Sherlock strip, reach over to get one, roll it on and smooth over some lube. Sherlock kneels back between John's legs and encourages John to roll over with a gentle push on his hip. John's more than willing to go with what Sherlock wants tonight and twists onto his stomach, props himself on his knees and bends low to lean on his elbows. He feels the heat of Sherlock's body behind him, long fingers caressing the crease of his arse, pushing into his hole and twisting a little. John's still very sensitive after his orgasm and jerks back a little at the touch. Sherlock stills him, smoothing a hand down his hip and kissing the dip of his spine. He continues to stroke and tease, and the longer it goes on the more John trembles and begs.

"Come on, dammit," John hisses and pushes back against Sherlock's hand, seeking more friction despite the sparks that jolt from his body at every slide of Sherlock's long fingers. It's almost too much when Sherlock replaces his fingers with the blunt head of his cock, and the slow push makes John gasp and drop his head to his folded arms. It's been a while for him, but the slight burn of the stretch crackles up his spine, making his arousal flare.

Sherlock keeps running his hands over John's sides, his thighs, and kisses his back with small, soft touches of his lips. Affection, John thinks. He can't look John in the face and say he's glad John is here, but his body betrays how he feels. But oh, Christ they've got to stop doing this; friends or no, benefits or no, their friendship is just a spark away from a conflagration that will burn them both from the inside out.

John groans as the rhythm of Sherlock's measured thrusts shifts a little, becomes harder, sharper, and he levers up on his knees so he can push Sherlock back on his heels and sit in the cradle of his hips. He lazily rubs his half-hard cock, feeling the echo of pleasure in the pressure of his fingers and the invasion of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock growls approval and pushes his hands under John's arms to wrap around his shoulders, giving him more leverage to thrust, making his breath huff hot and wet across John's back. He picks up his pace, hips meeting John's buttocks with an audible slap of skin and when he finally comes, presses his forehead into the space between John's shoulderblades and shudders out a groan. John pushes his arm behind him to hold Sherlock's hip while Sherlock is still breathing into his back.

They slide apart carefully and John collapses back against the pillows, utterly spent. Sherlock quickly disposes of the condom and turns back to start gathering his discarded pajamas from the floor; getting ready to leave, no doubt.

"Stay," John says without thinking, and immediately feels like he just lit the match. "If you want," he amends quickly.

Sherlock looks indecisive for a moment, his eyes darting toward the door and back to John, before he drops most of his clothes and fishes out his shorts to pull them on and climb back into bed. He turns on his side to face John and tucks an arm under his head, the other laying softly on the pillow between them. He looks anxious, wary, but amazingly, he's there.

But John switches out the light and pulls the covers up over them both. He settles back on his side, yawns, and says, "So, give me the whole story about Anderson's wife. I know you did something."

Sherlock relaxes noticeably. "Melanie? Well, one late evening I was at Bart's and…" Sherlock continues, his low, rumbling voice lulling John into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

_Title from Raphael, Self Portrait with a Friend._


	4. The World to Know It

The door to the flat barely closes before Sherlock is on him, pushing John against the wall, pinning his wrists and swooping in for a hard, bruising kiss that leaves John panting with surprise and almost instant arousal. "What the hell's gotten into you?" he says to Sherlock, who is busy pulling open John's shirt and dragging it and his jacket off of his shoulders.

"You," he says, and ducks to kiss John's neck, sucking and nipping and John's sure leaving a whopping great mark behind.

"Yeah, well, Sherlock – Christ!" John exclaims as Sherlock bites down on the mark he just made and cups John's erection through his trousers. "It'd probably be a good idea if we talk- oohhhh, yes, just like that." John's head tips back against the wall as he fights to keep his knees steady.

They'd just gotten home after the end of what John was temporarily calling the Chinese Smuggler case. John had put Sarah into a cab and given the driver enough cash to cover the fare and waved goodbye, promising to call the next day and getting a weak smile in return. John's not sure how things will go from here, but he thought he might still be able to save it. Sherlock had been fidgety the entire ride home, and now John knows why.

John grasps Sherlock's hips and hauls him in closer, pressing their bodies together from chest to knees. He can tip his head up at this angle and kiss Sherlock's earlobe the way John knows he likes, sucking gently and running his tongue around the shell of Sherlock's ear until he gasps.

"All right then," John growls. "If that's what you want, then let's go right ahead."

"Yes," Sherlock hisses, caught up in the pleasure of John's hand insinuating itself into his shirt to flick against his nipple. "God, yes, fuck me. I need it."

John pulls them both down to the carpeted floor and gets Sherlock to sit so John can pull off his socks and shoes and Sherlock can slide his trousers down his legs, leaving him bare from the waist down under his long dark coat. John has a sudden flash of their first time, on a roof in the dark, and just how much he thought that position could be improved upon.

"Wait here, need to grab some lube from your room," John starts before Sherlock tackles him back against the floor and starts pulling open his belt.

"No time for that, really, want you now," Sherlock pants, struggling to get John's jeans far enough down his legs so his erection is free. John's somewhat amused but confused at the same time – Sherlock impatient is Sherlock aroused, but the forceful bit is new. Marking his skin is new, too.

Sherlock angles a long leg over John's hips and straddles him, rubbing John's cock in the crease of his arse while pushing two fingers into John's mouth. John closes his eyes and laves each one, sucking and scraping the knuckles lightly with his teeth before Sherlock pulls back and reaches around to work a wet finger inside of himself.

John feels a bit undone at the visual he's getting and drops his head against the floor, staring up at the ceiling and wondering when the hell this became his life. His momentary reflection is lost when he feels Sherlock grasp his erection, take a deep breath and completely relax his body before pushing back in a hard shove that has the head of John's dick impaled inside Sherlock's body before he can blink.

Sherlock's pained cry at the invasion has John scrambling to pull back. "Jesus, what the hell are you trying to do?" he says. "Just – wait – let me help."

Sherlock shakes his head, pushes back another inch, and gasps. John's sure there's nothing helping ease the way but spit, and Sherlock's so tight it's almost painful. John isn't sure what on earth is going on with him, why he's so desperate, but John's going to have to calm him before he hurts himself. He wraps his hands around Sherlock's slim thighs, caressing his taut muscles and struggling not to move, the hot grip of Sherlock's body drawing him in and making him want to thrust up.

"Shhh, Sherlock. Just stop. We don't have anywhere else to go."

Sherlock drops his head to John's chest, breathing heavily and slowly slides back to take John in to the hilt.

"Ah, fuck," Sherlock says, grinding down a little. "Come on, I'm fine."

John stares at him, concern and desire warring with each other until he lifts his hips just slightly, pressing up to allow Sherlock's weight to settle more firmly. "I think you're in charge of this one," John says, squeezing Sherlock's arse. "Go ahead and fuck me," he adds with a growl.

Sherlock responds to the rough edge of John's voice and places both hands on John's chest. He slowly lifts himself almost completely off of John's prick and then slides back down, making them both groan. The discomfort on Sherlock's face slowly blooms to a flush of pleasure the longer he moves. John's watching him carefully, and the moment he's sure Sherlock can take it, snaps his hips up to meet Sherlock's downstroke. Sherlock cries out at the sharper contact, dropping his hands to the floor behind him and angling back, his body a long, lean line from head to knees.

"Fuck, that's gorgeous," John says, grasping Sherlock's cock with long, twisting strokes until Sherlock cries out and comes hard, the warmth of his semen trickling across John's belly.

Sherlock lifts himself up and leans forward, looking John right in the eyes as he continues to move on John's cock, muttering filthy encouragements until John follows him, coming so hard his back arches from the floor. When he comes down from the high, Sherlock is slumped over his chest with his eyes closed, pressing kisses against John's sternum. They'll be cemented together with sweat and dried come if they stay this way, but John's content to relax for the moment, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of Sherlock's body over his and soft lips on his skin.

Until he wakes up to find himself alone on the floor, covered by Sherlock's coat , the flat gone dark, the lovebite on his neck throbbing dully.

* * *

><p>The next morning John enters the kitchen to find Sherlock at the fridge, rummaging around for something to eat while wearing only his thin plaid pajama bottoms, the pale smooth skin of his back tempting John into something perhaps a bit rash. He feels like something shifted last night, a harder possessiveness in Sherlock's actions that might be the first glimpse of a space John can fit himself into. Besides, John can't resist that much skin on display, so he decides to risk it and steps behind him, curling an arm around Sherlock's waist and kissing his back.<p>

Sherlock stiffens and steps away quickly. "No, sorry," he says, and leaves the room.

John's desire turns to ashes. But the punch of rejection is soothed with the feeling of Sherlock's cock pushed deep in John's throat later that night, so late that even London is quiet.

John tries again two days later, creeping up behind Sherlock's chair where he's curled up reading a book. He slides his hand up Sherlock's nape and through the dark, wild curls he secretly adores. "Come to bed with me," he murmurs in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock tilts his head into the caress for a moment then shakes his head slightly, looking a little put out. "Not now, John," he says gruffly, and turns back to his book.

John throws up his hands and stalks off to his room.

The next morning Sherlock corners him in the shower, and John's gasps and moans echo off of the tiles.

It's got him completely confused, to put it mildly. After two more attempts to - what? Seduce? Convince? Sherlock to come to his bed, John feels like he has to give up just to maintain his dignity. His complete lack of willpower where Sherlock is concerned is troubling. They're too good together, John knows, as thick as thieves and the other half of each other's brain besides. Adding damn good sex is muddling it all up, throwing John's heart a curve he's not sure he can deal with and one that Sherlock obviously won't. He's starting to feel like he's trapped in orbit around Sherlock's life; unable to get any closer, but having a hard time pulling back.

So he goes out with Sarah, taking her to the cinema or to dinner, and thinks it's really hard to make conversation when another man's come is burning in your stomach.

Sherlock meets him at the door the night John comes home slightly high from managing to get so far as his hand up Sarah's top, palming a perfectly lovely breast while she moaned above him. It's not quite the engulfing flame of sex with Sherlock, but a long, slow simmer that promises to be richly satisfying after a little time. Time John's pretty sure he's willing to invest.

So when Sherlock reaches out to curl his hand around John's neck, John squares his shoulders and puts his hand up. "Not anymore," he says gently and steps back, out of Sherlock's reach.

Sherlock looks shocked for a moment, but then smiles. "You can't possibly mean that."

"I can, and I do. I've had enough, Sherlock." John drops his keys on the table and turns to hang up his coat, leaving Sherlock by the door looking completely flummoxed.

Sherlock crosses to stand directly in front of him. "John, don't be so pedestrian. Come to bed with me."

John's temper flares. "What, so you can pull another fuck and run, and I don't get to touch you again until you decide to let me?"

"That's –" Sherlock stops, swallows. "You've never had a problem with it before."

"That's patently untrue and you know it. And maybe that's not what I want anymore."

Sherlock's lips twist into a sneer. "Oh, so that's why Sarah. Boring nights in front of the telly, romance and dates and kisses at the door, and a woman who'll give you safe, dull, pedestrian sex on demand. You cannot possibly think that would satisfy you."

John finally loses control of his mouth at Sherlock's pat dismissal of his (admittedly new) attempts to create a life outside of Sherlock's influence. "Dammit, I just want to have something that I know is mine!"

Sherlock draws himself up tall, every ounce of hauteur showing in the set of his shoulders and the lift of his chin. "I won't let you possess me," he says, his voice icy cold. He stalks off down the stairs and out of the front door, letting it slam behind him.

"Of course you won't, you fucking hypocrite!" John yells after him.

John whispers into the empty room. "Because it's too late for me."

* * *

><p>The next day John is heading back to the flat from a walk down to the nearest pub. He ducked out as soon as he could that afternoon to avoid any further confrontations with Sherlock, hoping he'd had a chance to cool down. But as John starts up the stairs to the flat, he hears a gunshot. Then another. He manages to make it to the top just to see Sherlock point his gun at the wall and fire, a puff of plaster dust floating in the air.<p>

"What the hell are you doing?" he yells, and then puts his fingers in his ears as Sherlock flips the gun behind his back.

"Bored!" Sherlock counters, and pulls the trigger.

John wrestles the gun away from him, dropping the magazine and putting the pieces away in the desk drawer for now. The entire night only devolves from there, with severed heads and Sherlock getting sarcastic and John retaliating, until the atmosphere is so tense John takes the coward's way out and makes a run for it.

He's not sure why he expected anything else, really, he grumbles to himself as he strides down the pavement. Sherlock's got the emotional capacity of a 6-year-old, and if he wants to be a caustic, selfish, and unfeeling bastard in order to drive John away, then John's more than happy to go right ahead and leave. He hails a cab at the corner and gives the cabbie Sarah's address, with _all that matters to me is the work _echoing in his memory.

_Title from Edvard Munch: Jealousy__, and Lord Byron: "Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it."_


	5. What Moment Love Begins

The next days bring bombs and disappearing husbands and fake paintings and death and fear, and somewhere in the middle of the most intense case they've yet experienced, John and Sherlock reach a détente in a skirmish that hasn't really ever been played out satisfactorily for either party.

When the case is at a lull, the pink phone quietly resting on the arm of Sherlock's chair and Sherlock himself hurling abuse at the telly, John thinks perhaps they can move past these last few months after all and settle into a solid partnership. One without the messy confusion of brain-melting sex, he thinks with some small regret, but a close friendship nonetheless.

The thought cheers him considerably as he snaps his laptop closed and pulls his coat closer around his body – the windows should be replaced tomorrow, according to Mrs. Hudson's insurance agent – and tells Sherlock he's off to Sarah's. Sherlock mumbles in acknowledgement and even agrees to pick up milk and beans, which is almost unheard of.

He steps out onto Baker Street, more relaxed and carefree than he's been in a month.

* * *

><p>When he next is aware of his surroundings, his head is pounding and he's sitting in the back of a van wrapped in a vest that very much looks like it has explosives attached to it.<p>

"Welcome back, Johnny my Johnny!" a voice chirps. John recognizes it, just heard it a few days ago, he thinks muzzily. When the young, dark-haired man pops around to his field of vision, John rears back in shock. "Oh, I decided Molly wasn't worth my time after all! You, on the other hand, are worth all of it." The man smiles viciously, teeth gleaming.

John drops his head back. Jesus Christ, fucking _Jim. _"What the hell are you playing at?" he says.

"Oh, Dr. Watson. I got a lovely invitation from your darling boyfriend. We have a date. Midnight, to be exact." Jim looks gleeful, excited, and suddenly John's rather efficient kidnapping and the fact that he's going rigged with explosives to a midnight rendezvous with Sherlock slots into place.

"You're the bomber," he says carefully, and as he shifts slightly he realizes his hands are cuffed together.

"Right you are, me boyo, and we're here, so out we go." The doors open and Jim shoves John out with a vicious shove with his foot. John hits the ground rather painfully and is almost immediately dragged up by the arms while Jim fits him with an earpiece. "You know the rules. So be a good boy, and give Sherlock a lovely surprise from me."

John's pulled into the back of the building and out onto the deck of the pool. His handler maneuvers him into a small alcove between two changing stalls and tells him to wait. He stands, pulse hammering, sweat beading down his temples, torn between wanting to kick Sherlock's stupid, egotistical arse and admiring his courage for setting this up to start with.

He hears the doors pop open, and Sherlock's deep voice. "I brought you a little getting to know you present," he says.

The earpiece crackles to life. "Showtime, Johnny boy," he hears.

* * *

><p>They laugh together when John says that people might talk.<p>

When laser sights swarm their bodies again, suddenly things aren't quite so funny.

John looks at Sherlock, tall and proud and resolute as he swings his gun up at Moriarty, and a single glance he flicks sideways tells John everything.

That he wants John to trust him. That he knows John will understand what he's about to do. What he did.

John nods almost imperceptibly, trying to convey that yes, he trusts him. They're together in this like they've been in everything, single halves of a whole, synchronous and interlocked.

So when Sherlock's finger tightens oh-so-slightly on the trigger, John tenses, braces his feet, and jumps.

* * *

><p>John slumps into his chair and flares the paper in front of him, reading the crime reports and feeling the urge to toss a comment over his shoulder to see if Sherlock had anything to add.<p>

He would, but Sherlock hasn't been home. Oh, he'd ducked in for a change of clothes as John was coming down for tea early this morning, but before John could get himself awake enough to corner him, Sherlock was gone.

It was getting well past ridiculous, really. He'd heard the front door open and close an hour or so ago, and the pause at the door that told John Sherlock had stopped and realized that John was home. Sherlock's footsteps made their way up the second set of stairs, up toward John's room, and the door to the attic.

John finally gives up. He's just had about enough of waiting around for Sherlock to get his brain straightened out so they could talk like adults. He folds the paper, makes his way upstairs to the attic stairs, takes a deep breath, and starts climbing.

He pushes the trapdoor open and sees a dark figure sitting on the roof, body curled in on itself, hands clasped around bony knees.

"Thought I'd find you up here," John says, carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the shingles and settling in next to Sherlock. "It's been four days. You planning on coming home any time soon?"

Sherlock slants a look at him. "I am home. Obviously. As I'm sitting on the roof of our flat."

John rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but you've not actually been _inside_ for more than 10 minutes since…well. Since then."

Sherlock huffs an impatient sigh. "I find I'm unable to concentrate, these days."

John flicks a couple little bits of loose mortar down the roof, sending them skittering over the edge. It really is past time they talk about it. "Do you know what the worst part of that entire experience was?"

"Being wrapped in Semtex and threatened with death?"

"No, you idiot, although that really was a barrel of laughs. No, the worst part was knowing you'd set the whole thing up yourself, and not being able to warn you that it was about to be a complete cock-up. That was the worst."

Sherlock turns his head to look at him then, his eyes luminous in the purple dusk closing around them. "I thought you'd be angry that I lied to you."

"Of course I am. But after surviving that little encounter I'm finding it's rather pointless to hold grudges."

Sherlock turns his head to watch the spot where the sun had just sunk below the horizon. "You'll never be able to save me from myself, John. But when you were there, and I'd understood what he'd done…" Sherlock's voice trails off and he scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. "Moriarty wasn't completely wrong, in some things."

John stays silent, watching his profile and wondering what second chances feel like. Even as he wants to reach out he feels at war with himself; he could just let the moment pass, move past these last few months and settle into a solid partnership and friendship. One without the messy confusion of brain-melting sex.

But he remembers Sherlock's face, a softening around the eyes when he asked if John was alright, the feel of their joined hands when they'd surfaced, Sherlock's wet hair curling around his collar in dark, dripping ringlets, his face alight with the thrill of being alive. John's hand had curled around Sherlock's neck and pressed Sherlock's forehead against his, the both of them treading water and giggling like madmen until the police arrived.

He's already decided, he realizes.

John reaches out and grasps Sherlock's wrist lightly, slowly draws it away from his knees and turns it palm up into the cradle of John's right hand. He traces the shape of Sherlock's fingers with a gentle touch, exploring his fingertips, the creases of his knuckles, the fine webbing of skin between. He follows the lifeline from around the forefinger with a fingertip, all the way around the side of the palm before raising Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissing the underside of his wrist, lips lingering on the fine veins that thrum with the pulse of Sherlock's strong heart.

John waits, his own heart pounding so hard he's sure he can see it. But Sherlock isn't pulling away this time. In fact, his head has dropped back, his eyes screwed shut, and his fingers have curled lightly into his palm, which is trembling slightly.

"I can be this, but you have to let me," John whispers, lips brushing against Sherlock's skin.

John watches in awe as Sherlock turns his hand over to grasp John's hand and press it against his cheek, then kiss the back of it. He opens his eyes, and John can see the nervousness and fear he's been so good at hiding. "It's too late to grant permission," he says shakily. "You already are."

John pulls his head back and looks Sherlock in the eyes. "Then why wouldn't you let me touch you?"

"I didn't know how to process what you wanted from me. If it was just a casual encounter, when I was ready for it, I could handle it. Letting you instigate – it felt like surrender."

John thinks for a moment. "It is, sometimes. But that's the way of it, you know."

"I'm learning," Sherlock says.

* * *

><p>John's room is quiet, and dark. The rustle of fabric as John slides Sherlock's coat and jacket from his shoulders is almost too loud, almost an emphasis on their consummation. Sherlock dips his head to kiss him as he continues to work on Sherlock's shirt buttons, pushing the material from Sherlock's shoulders with a soft sigh. He slides his fingers down the slope of one pale shoulder, feeling hard muscle and bone, tracing the green-black of a bruise from a not-so-gentle shove into a swimming pool.<p>

"That's twice you've saved my life," Sherlock says quietly, pushing his fingers through the short hair on the back of John's head. "I'm not sure if having you with me is a blessing or a curse."

John laughs and pushes him back on the bed. "How would it be a curse?" he asks, and starts pulling off his own clothes while Sherlock is busy taking off his trousers.

"Because you're the most distracting thing I've ever come across," Sherlock replies, kneeling up on the bed and reaching out to grasp John's hips and pull him toward him. "Do you know you often I've had to refrain from kissing you in public, just from watching your mind work?" Sherlock kisses him then, slow and deep and dirty, curling his fingers into John's hips as John wraps his hands around the back of Sherlock's neck and brushes thumbs over his cheekbones.

John lightly maneuvers Sherlock back so he can climb on the bed, pulling them both down so they're facing each other and John can hook one of Sherlock's long legs over his hip. He can feel the heat of Sherlock's erection brushing against his belly as he wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist and leans forward to nuzzle between thin, sharp collarbones, savoring the warm, smooth skin and contented sigh he draws from Sherlock's chest. The sighs turn to moans when John slips a hand up Sherlock's side to brush a nipple with his thumb, feeling the skin turn firm under his touch.

Sherlock's leg tightens over John's hip, and he shifts a little so their cocks are pushing against each other as he moves. "More," he breathes. "God, must you be so _slow_?"

"Never been able to take my time before," John says, ducking his head down to flick his tongue across the nipple he was just tugging. "Now hush, and let me do this."

John reaches down to curl his hand around Sherlock's cock, pulling a slow, twisting stroke over the head and then back down, hand barely skimming the soft skin before cupping his balls and giving them a light tug. He leans up over Sherlock's shoulder and snags a small bottle of lube from his nightstand; clicks open the cap and drizzles a bit into his palm. He's deliberately slow in his movements, letting Sherlock follow every move as he tosses the bottle on the floor and slicks Sherlock's cock, thumbing over the head and making him gasp.

He pushes forward, lifting Sherlock's thigh over his waist until he can slide his cock between Sherlock's slim thighs, thrusting lightly against his body, slipping back under Sherlock's balls into the crease of his arse and rubbing gently across his anus. He keeps a deliberately slow pace with his hand on Sherlock's prick, stroking him with long, slow pulls.

"Christ John, oh your hands…" Sherlock pants as he cants his hips forward, trying to take more of John's cock in as tight of a space as he can manage.

John keeps stroking, feeling the intimacy of their actions more strongly now that they're more deliberate, almost a new exploration of a body John knows so well. He feels Sherlock's body respond, his hips speeding up, rocking harder into John's hand, John gasping at the slick push-pull of his cock gliding in the crease of Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock's body suddenly stutters, pushes hard against John's and he cries out, warmth spilling over John's hand just as John feels his own orgasm wash through his body. He crashes his mouth to Sherlock's, more a smear of his lips against Sherlock's than a true kiss, as Sherlock's body continues to tremble against him.

John withdraws, snags his tee shirt from the floor and cleans them both up as best he can before collapsing on the bed next to a quiet and sated Sherlock.

"So damn gorgeous," John murmurs, turning toward him and resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Always thought so. Can't believe you want me, of all people."

Sherlock rubs John's hair absently. "Not as surprised as I am," he counters. "It's more than I ever expected when Mike introduced us." He makes a contended sound, squirming around until he's settled against the pillows the way he wants, then takes a deep breath before he speaks. "I'm sure I need – I'll be more than happy if you – " Sherlock's stuttering words are so unlike him John lifts his head to see his face. "Will you stay with me? Please," he finally says.

John shakes his head and kisses him lightly on the mouth. "Of course I will. Probably need to save your life again before breakfast."

"I'll count on it, then," Sherlock says, and pulls John closer to kiss him again.

Title from Pablo Picasso's painting Friendship, and Longfellow: "It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun."


End file.
